


My Boys

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode: s01e10 In Excelsis Deo, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-01
Updated: 2006-05-01
Packaged: 2019-05-30 10:09:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15094538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: While at Arlington, Mrs. Landinghamreflects on all her boys.





	My Boys

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

TITLE: My Boys  
AUTHOR: Kestabrook  
SPOILER: In Excelsis Deo  
CLASSIFICATION: Vignette  
CONTENT: Post-ep (kind of); Mrs. L's POV  
RATING: G  
SUMMARY: While at Arlington, Mrs. Landingham  
reflects on all her boys.  
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Aaron  
Sorkin and company. I'm just borrowing them.  
COMMENTS: This is my first West Wing fanfic, so  
please be gentle with me!!  
FEEDBACK: I'd love it if helpful or positive.

My Boys (01 of 01)  
by Kestabrook

A cold day--normal for winter in Washington, D.C.  
Maybe it's the only thing that's normal about this  
day before Christmas. After all, many people would  
be readying to celebrate the holiday with a tree  
surrounded by gifts. But I, on the other hand,  
stare at a flag-draped coffin surrounded by  
countless white markers. And I huddle into my coat  
more as a chill embraces me.

I sit in this quiet, massive cemetery, watching,  
honoring. Remembering. Feeling. So many have given  
their lives or of their lives for this country--  
and this place shows only a fraction of that  
number. It tends to humble me when I think of the  
freedoms they've given me through their  
sacrifices.

I manage one cautious glimpse which reveals that  
your attention is rapt; your eyes do not stray  
from the Honor Guard as it ritualistically  
conducts the graveside ceremony. And for the  
umpteenth time today, I am glad I decided to  
accompany you here. You didn't ask me to. In fact,  
you were surprised when I told you I wanted to  
come. But you didn't ask why, Toby Ziegler; you  
probably already knew why. And I'm grateful that  
you merely ushered me toward the waiting car and  
the silent ride.

I had to come with you. I watched the Mural Room  
fill with the young choir--boys whose faces  
reflected no knowledge of war and its destruction.  
I watched our own White House people enter the  
room to be entertained. How easy to forget those  
who've gone before; how easy to forget even the  
likes of Lowell Lydell, who had in his own way  
fought for the freedom to live as he wanted. How  
easy to forget so many of our boys. But I can't  
forget. And so I had to come, Toby.

I'm glad there's no snow. Snow tends to make  
everything more depressing and lonely than it  
already is. Green grass surrounds us, and maybe  
Walter Hufnagel would be glad to see that. To know  
he'll be buried beneath green grass. My boys were  
buried when snow surrounded us. A very bleak day  
that was.

My boys. They were twins, you know. I hadn't  
expected or planned for both of them, but the  
births of my Andrew and Simon were a gift for  
which I've always been grateful. They were simply  
twice as much joy.

As I was telling Charlie, I tried to keep my boys  
somewhat separate. I wanted each twin to have his  
own personality. I tried to dress them  
differently, to encourage each in his own  
aspirations and dreams. But no matter what I did,  
they seemed to be a united pair. And that was  
okay, too.

My boys were such fun. I used to watch them  
through the kitchen window as they played in the  
back yard. I believe the only real arguments they  
ever had, concerned which of them would be Elvis  
or Bobby Darin. I can still hear their laughter  
and their awful renditions of "Hound Dog" and  
"Mack the Knife." Later, they played basketball or  
catch or football. They double-dated to the proms.  
They were fun boys, and those were good years.

They were also boys of whom to be proud, I can  
tell you that. Tops in their classes all the way  
through school. Honors and awards aplenty.  
Scholarships. I always wanted my boys to do their  
best and to be serious about the things that  
mattered most to them, and they never let me down.

They were never the type to try to get away with  
things either. I could trust them. If they said  
they would be somewhere, that's where they were.  
Never did a public embarrassment come from my  
boys. Not one.

I remember them as they went off to college, both  
planning to be doctors. What a celebration we had  
when their letters of acceptance arrived. Yet, I  
felt pride mixed with heartbreak as they left our  
home. Of course, I wanted them to succeed in their  
lives, but that empty back yard was almost too  
much to bear.

I remember them as they came to the house to tell  
us of their draft notices. To tell us they planned  
to fight for the United States in Vietnam even  
though they could have avoided it. Even though we  
begged them to change their minds.

And I remember nights of tears--tears hidden from  
my brave twins until the day they left. Tears then  
openly shed--even by them as they hugged me the  
final time. I can still remember their strong,  
warm embraces. Their long arms wrapped so easily  
around their mother, holding me close as I let  
tears flow into the wool of their coats. And I  
remember watching them as they boarded the plane.  
Watching till there was no sight remaining of  
their backs--or of their plane as it took them  
into the clouds.

I remember all too well seeing them that last  
time.

And I remember the military men at my front door  
on that horrible winter day, talking about bravery  
and sacrifice. As those men talked, I thought of  
my boys' smiles turning to grimaces; of their  
sturdy, athletic bodies riddled and turning limp  
and cold. I realized I would never cry into the  
wool of their coats again. That I would be denied  
giving them a triumphant welcome home. That I  
would never see them practice medicine, nor would  
I attend their weddings. I would never be  
grandmother to their children. I would never see  
them again in this life. I realized my boys were  
gone.

Again, I glimpse over at you, Toby. And I wonder--  
did your mother also watch your back as you  
boarded a plane to take you away from her? Did she  
cry whenever your letters arrived to tell her that  
things weren't so bad, that you were doing fine,  
that you'd be home before she knew it? Did she  
jump every time the phone rang? Did she pray  
nearly every waking moment for your safe return?  
Did she feel tremendous pride mixed with horrible  
worry, knowing that you were over there?

What would she think of you today as you--having  
gone against what's "right" and used your position  
to "pull strings"--attend a funeral for a homeless  
Korean War veteran whom you didn't even know and  
about whom others conveniently forgot? What would  
she think of you for having arranged this  
ceremony?

I know what I think of you.

When the call came this morning, to inform the  
President that the military funeral *he'd*  
arranged was a go, I knew very well what I thought  
of you. And when later I told you, "You absolutely  
should not have done that," I hoped you would pick  
up on *my* signs. That you would know my heart  
held such pride for you, such gratitude for what  
you were doing for Mrs. Hufnagel's boy. I only  
hope that whoever brought my boys out of that  
hellhole treated them with the same respect, the  
same concern. I hope there was a Toby Ziegler  
watching out for them.

You know, I used to bake them cookies--my boys. I  
guess I still do. For in a way, Toby, you are one  
of my boys--you and the others on the Senior  
Staff. Even that vegetable-hating President of  
ours is my boy in a way. I take good care of you  
all, but you deserve it.

Like my boys, Toby, you're a man willing to  
sacrifice, willing to give up personal comfort and  
happiness to serve his country--both back then,  
and now. You're a man who does what he thinks is  
right, who doesn't cower under pressure, who  
doesn't take the easy path if another one is  
better. I cherish that. I respect that in all my  
boys.

A gun suddenly fires, and I jump. The gun salute  
has begun. What a horrible noise. How terrifying  
that this is the last sound my boys ever heard.  
Another report, and I shudder. A third. My eyes  
squeeze shut. And then it's over. The flag is  
presented to George--after you indicate that he  
should receive it--and the gesture to stand is  
given to us.

Another soldier retired. Another boy returned to  
his home.

I watch George lay flowers on the coffin. They are  
the only things this simple man has to give to  
honor his brother. Flowers--and his presence...and  
you made both possible for him, Toby.

I feel your hand on my back, guiding me to leave  
this site. And in a single line, we file toward  
the car. Silently. Reverently. The cold air  
re-introduces itself as the ceremony fades into  
the past. And I adjust my scarf, pulling it a bit  
tighter around my neck.

I stand back, waiting, as you open the door for  
George and then close it after he takes the back  
seat. You move toward my side of the car, opening  
the door for me, too, but before I get inside, I  
stop. I look up into your intelligent, sad eyes,  
seeing there the pain of your memories--of boys'  
bodies horrifically mutilated; of suffering you  
could only watch, not prevent; of deaths that  
robbed families of their children or fathers; of  
sacrifices made for others' freedom. I see in your  
eyes your sympathy for my boys.

I touch the wool coat which covers your arm. I  
say, "Thank you, Toby." And I hope you understand  
what all I mean by that.

Christmas is tomorrow, but it really hasn't come  
for a long time. We ride off in the car toward a  
holiday darkened with losses, but made a bit  
brighter because Toby Ziegler, one of my boys,  
cared.  
************************************************  
End "My Boys" (01 of 01)  



End file.
